Let's Talk About Boobs

Every Woman Has Her Own Boob Chronicles. Here Are Mine.

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Boobs. Just the word itself elicits a response. Whoever you are, it probably triggered some reaction, even if it was a slight giggle.

Straight woman?
Yea, what about ‘em?

Straight man?
Yes, please.

Lesbian?
Yes, please and Yea, what about ‘em?

Gay man?
I don’t get it.

Whatever your reaction, it’s probably valid. Boobs are the most mythical of body parts. Objects of desire, of nourishment, of pleasure, of annoyance. For women, they can be both blessing and curse. Sometimes they make us feel feminine, sexy, or mother-earthy. Sometimes they try to kill us.

Every woman has boob stories. Here are some of mine.

I was a late bloomer. I remember watching with envy and more than a little fascination as my peers began to sprout in late elementary and early middle school. I still felt very “little girlish” and was by no means ready to be associated with anything that could be skewed toward sexual, but I didn’t mind having a front row seat to the ones who blossomed before I did. This was my stance at first anyway, but by the end of middle school, I was definitely feeling left behind and a bit self conscious.

As we all know in our patriarchal society, it is not unusual for members of the male species to make unsolicited comments on female bodies, and it starts at a young age. Although I love them for breakfast, I did not love being called “Pancakes” on the regular. Nor did I need adolescent boys to tell me I was flat chested. I was already well aware.

There were also boys who liked to sweep their hands across your back to suss out whether or not you were wearing a bra, then laugh and make comments if you weren’t. After only a couple of these episodes, I went home and told my mom that I needed to get a bra. I did not tell her what had prompted my all-of-a-sudden need for a contraption that my body absolutely did not require at that point.

I’m sure my mom chalked it up to my self consciousness at being one of the last girls to develop, which was also valid. She did nothing to make me feel embarrassed about my pressing need for a bra, but I felt embarrassed anyway. That embarrassment got turned up to a 10 when we actually went to the mall to make the purchase.

I was horrified to learn that a saleswoman would be accompanying me into a dressing room for a fitting which involved me stripping down to nothing on top and having my measurements taken while I tried to look anywhere besides at her or in the mirror. It was like disassociation-light. After she determined my size, I hid behind the racks in the lingerie department lest anyone from school see me while my mom gathered an assortment of training bras for me to try. (What exactly are we training breasts to do? Run a marathon, learn code?)

Dismay hit all over again when I realized the saleswoman would now be joining me in the dressing room to ascertain which bras were my best option. I’m sure I made my mom carry the bag when we exited the store as I slinked back to the car trying to recover from the ordeal.

Although I did not welcome the boys’ bra sleuthing antics, at least now I was ready for them. What I did not know at the time but quickly learned was that when they swept their hands across your back and discovered you were wearing a bra, they then tried to snap the strap through your shirt.

(By the way, bras are low key torture devices. There is no such thing as a comfortable one despite what the perky smiley women in the ads tell you. It’s a universal given that the first thing women want to do when they get home is whip off their bras and let the girls go free. I actually weigh the decision to leave the house on a scale of 1 to “How badly do I not want to put on a bra?”)

Fast forward a few years. Although I was a late bloomer, I did eventually bloom. I sprouted in high school, but for some reason I did not “fully bloom” until college. I thought the days of unsolicited boob comments were over (not counting private comments from my husband and occasional catcalls on the street) by the time I attended my 10-year high school reunion.

I was totally taken aback when not one, but two different former classmates asked me point blank if I had gotten a boob job since high school. In my shock I just shook my head no and wandered off stunned both times. I was still in my “be polite, go along to get along, don’t make waves” youthful female era. If this had happened to modern-day me, I would have told those two to fuck right off.

The next noteworthy event in my personal boob history was breastfeeding, you know, the thing they were actually made for. I expected it to be a madonna-esque type thing where my newborn baby blissfully, naturally and easily took to the breast. It was definitely not that. It was more like when you try to get your cat to take a pill.

Delirious and drugged after a C-section, I could not get my baby to latch on. The hospital’s lactation specialist who came to help basically folded my breast like origami then shoved it in my child’s mouth as if she was stuffing an envelope. Other than a gnarly mastitis infection, it was smooth sailing after that.

During pregnancy and the months I was breastfeeding, my boobs had gotten huge. After breastfeeding, I kept waiting for them to shrink back down to pre-pregnancy size the same way most of my friends’ had. But not only did they not shrink, they also did not stop producing milk. (Back in the olden days, I could have had a lucrative career as a wet nurse.) I actually ended up having to take medication to force them to dry up many months after no longer nursing. And I also ended up with way bigger boobs than I started with pre-pregs.

I hated my “new boobs.” They were cumbersome, uncomfortable and out of proportion for my short frame. To make matters worse, my nipples now looked like something out of National Geographic. But I was in the throes of new motherhood and all the adjustments that entails, so I accepted my new “mom bod” as part of the package. For a while anyway.

But a few years later, I had taken up running. In order to keep my boobs from practically hitting me in the chin, I had to wear two or three sports bras. Just a reminder that one measly bra is constricting and uncomfortable. Wearing two or three was miserable. I’ve never actually been squeezed by a boa constrictor across the chest, but I imagine it was akin to that. In addition, I had started having some lower back pain. It could have been the result of a career as a dance teacher, but the frontal overload definitely did not help.

I began researching breast reduction surgery. Although my husband was not totally thrilled with the idea, he also realized this was a choice that was only mine to make, and he was fully supportive. (Imagine that! A world where a woman gets to make her own decisions about her body!)

I was aware that a breast reduction qualified as major surgery, but I became slightly fixated on having it done. Our kids were young at the time, and we were saving for college and all the things, so I was not about to pay thousands of dollars for an elective surgery. I was hopeful however that my back pain and breast size would qualify me for insurance coverage.

At my first appointment with a highly recommended surgeon, I learned that insurance coverage came down to a formula. There were a specific set of measurements and a ratio that would determine whether or not I would be approved. After marking all over my chest with a Sharpie and taking several measurements, the doctor told me I was just under the magic number. I holstered my doodled-upon boobs back into my bra and waited until I was in my car to cry.

Just a few days later though, I got an unexpected call from the surgeon’s office. Although my measurements were a tad under the threshold, they had submitted to insurance anyway, and I was approved for the surgery. I had already been working on accepting my big-boobed fate, so this news was a shock to my system. The kicker was that my surgery would only be approved for a short window of time, so I had to get it scheduled right away. I thought I had been in the gathering information stage and would have time to mentally prepare for such a big deal surgery, but it felt like I was suddenly living in a warehouse liquidation sale. Act fast or you’re going to lose out on this unbelievable opportunity flashed in my head like a cheesy ad on TV.

Know how many regrets I have since the surgery a few weeks later? Zero. It felt like a gift to wear only one bra while running. My clothes fit better and my back pain went away. (It’s showed back up like a needy ex, but it has nothing to do with my boobs and everything to do with my aging ex-dancer body. Read I Used to Be Cursive But Now I’m Chicken Scratch for more about that.) My rib cage was visible again. My nips were perfectly proportioned. Besides having to sleep on my back for a few weeks after the operation and some tiny, barely visible scars, I had no post-op inconveniences or issues.

The most recent chapter of my boob chronicles involves a couple of iffy mammograms and a lump that required further investigation by sonogram all blessedly resulting in a clean bill of health. Some of my dear friends, including my bestie, have not been as lucky.

Other than annual mammograms and regular self-exams, my boobs haven’t really been top of mind since my reduction, which is how it should be when it comes to our body parts. I mean do you often think about your thumb or your elbow unless they’re hurt or not functioning?

I’m glad I no longer have to worry about guys snapping my bra strap or asking point blank about my breast size. I am thankful I got to experience breastfeeding my child and that I was able to have a breast reduction. I’m generally happy with my boobs. And I’m happy I mostly work from home so I hardly ever have to wear a bra. Like a breastfeeding baby, those things really suck.

• Schitt’s Creek - This is my fourth time watching this beloved series, but it’s the perfect antidote to the country’s current climate of chaos. LOL, warmhearted viewing at its very best. Fun fact: In the special bonus episode that aired right before the series finale (Best Wishes, Warmest Regards), the cast members read a letter to Dan Levy that was written by The Mama Bears, an advocacy group of moms of LGBTQ kids that praised the show for its loving and authentic portrayal of LGBTQ relationships. I am proud to be one of The Mama Bears and advocates in that letter.

• Francophile here reporting for duty. Maybe it’s due to my French family heritage or maybe it’s because I love nothing more than a good croissant, but I’ve always had a slight obsession with all things Francais. I’m currently learning the language, listening to French pop music and planning a Paris return for next year’s milestone birthday. If a trip to the City of Lights is a possibility in your future, check out this Paris guide from my last visit.

• In one of my earliest Substack articles, I shared my French Mix Playlist and touted the band Pomplamoose as my gateway drug to the genre. They are an American couple but have songs in English and French. Here’s their album En Francais.